‘Perhaps he was enjoying himself,’ Geraldine added.
Jonah threw her a curious glance before continuing. ‘Any one of those injuries might have proved fatal without immediate medical attention, and even if she’d been attended to without any delay at all, she might not have survived the trauma.’
‘How many times was she struck?’
‘Seven, possibly eight. It looks as though she was slashed twice in the same place,’ he added by way of explanation.
‘Can you tell us anything about the killer?’
Jonah looked surprised. ‘What do you mean? You can see what happened.’ He indicated the body. ‘She was stabbed to death.’
Geraldine paused. She was used to working with a pathologist in London who was happy to speculate, off the record, about the events at crime scenes. He would willingly share his theories about the physique and motivation of unknown killers. But it had taken time for Geraldine to convince him that she was discreet. Jonah had only just met her.
‘We found a scraping of skin under one of her finger nails,’ he went on. ‘It wasn’t hers.’
‘Are you sure?’ Geraldine asked with a rush of excitement. ‘How long had it been there?’
‘Since around the time of her death.’
‘And it definitely wasn’t hers?’
‘The DNA analysis shows it was a man but there’s no match on the database.’
Geraldine nodded, doing her best to hide her disappointment at the anonymity of the DNA sample.
‘Was there any evidence of sexual assault or any sexual activity at all shortly before she was killed?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Off the record, Jonah, can you give me anything else? I won’t tell anyone.’
Jonah raised his eyebrows, but he was grinning. ‘Off the record?’ he repeated. ‘You won’t even tell Ian?’
Geraldine hesitated. Until recently she had been a detective inspector. She would have been seriously vexed if her sergeant had kept anything from her. Now she was hinting at doing just that. As an inspector her request wouldn’t have been questioned. She bit her lip. She had to remember that she was now a detective sergeant, and needed to adapt her behaviour accordingly. Jonah winked at her, well aware that she was going to pass on to Ian any information she gleaned.
‘I used to work with Ian, when he was a sergeant,’ she said, hoping that her long relationship with Ian would inspire confidence in the pathologist.
There was no need to mention that she had once been Ian’s senior officer, and that their roles were now reversed. After she had been working in York for a while, and her colleagues knew her, she wouldn’t care so much if they found out what had happened. But for now she preferred to keep her recent history to herself. First impressions were difficult to shake off. She didn’t want to start out with everyone knowing she had been demoted.
‘The fact that we can analyse the DNA is good news,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Yes, we should be able to learn something about the killer, even if we can’t come up with a name. And look here.’ Shining a bright light on the victim’s face, he pointed to her cheeks on either side of her lips. A wound across the victim’s mouth had been neatly concealed. ‘We’ve patched her face up for the viewing.’
Geraldine nodded. The injuries to the victim’s chest could remain hidden beneath the covers, but her parents would have to see her face to confirm her identity.
‘She looked ghastly when she came in, enough to give anyone nightmares, and certainly not in a fit state for her parents to see her.’
Geraldine praised his handiwork.
‘With any luck, they won’t notice it,’ Jonah said. ‘She wasn’t a pretty sight.’
‘How did it happen?’ Geraldine asked.
He shrugged. ‘Our kindly killer slashed her across the mouth, while she was still alive and breathing. God only knows why.’
Before either of them could say anything else, the door opened and Avril came in to inform them that the victim’s parents had arrived.
Jonah nodded. ‘She’s almost ready. Give me five minutes.’
‘Right,’ Avril smiled as she withdrew.
Geraldine wondered how they could remain so cheerful knowing a bereaved couple were in the next room, waiting to see their dead daughter. She always found the living more painful to deal with than the dead. At least they were at peace.
‘After life’s fitful fever she sleeps well,’ she muttered.
‘What’s that?’ Jonah asked.
‘Nothing. Just something I remember from school.’
‘Macbeth.’
Geraldine was surprised he recognised the quotation, but before she could respond he turned away. ‘Time to get her ready.’
6
Removing her mask, Geraldine followed Avril along the corridor and through a door marked ‘Mortuary – Visitor Suite’. The room was delicately scented, with a few anodyne watercolours hanging on the walls and a vase of flowers on one of the tables. There was a drinks machine, and several boxes of tissues placed within reach of all the chairs. Everything had been thoughtfully arranged to support visitors’ needs. But none of it offered much comfort to the people who came and sat there.
The victim’s parents were younger than Geraldine had expected. Mrs Crawford was small and plump; her husband was tall and thin. They must have been very young when their daughter was born, because they couldn’t have been older than their mid-forties now. Both of them were very pale. They were standing motionless, side by side, staring at the floor, ignoring the sofa and armchairs in the room.
‘Mr and Mrs Crawford?’ The door swung closed behind her. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Geraldine Steel. Can we sit down? I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
Mr Crawford stirred. Reaching out to grasp his wife’s hand, he stared at the wall behind Geraldine’s head.
‘You don’t know it’s her yet, do you?’
Geraldine hesitated. ‘We need you to identify her.’
She didn’t say what they all knew, that this was just a formality. Ashley had found her dead friend in their shared kitchen.
‘She’ll be ready for you in a few minutes,’ she added.
‘But you don’t know it’s our daughter in there, do you? All you know is that a girl was killed in her flat. It could be anyone,’ Mr Crawford insisted.
His eyes were bright with repressed desperation. Geraldine didn’t answer.
‘Do we have to go in there?’ Mrs Crawford asked. ‘I’m not sure… I don’t think I can…’
Her husband pushed his shoulders back and straightened his back. Then he looked directly at Geraldine.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘We need to know.’
‘Don’t leave me alone here,’ Mrs Crawford stammered.
‘Avril will stay with you,’ Geraldine reassured her.
Leaving the distraught mother behind, Geraldine led Mr Crawford along the hushed corridor to view the body. Steeling herself to witness his grief, she was relieved when he merely nodded his head, too shocked to speak. His face remained fixed in an impassive glare. Only his eyes burned with unspoken grief.
‘That’s her,’ he whispered at last, choking on the words. ‘That’s our Stephanie.’
In place of pity, Geraldine felt only an overwhelming relief that the wound on his daughter’s face was no longer visible. Without a word she led him back to the visitors’ lounge. His wife took one look at his face and broke down in tears.
‘No, no,’ she wailed, dropping her face in her hands and sobbing.
‘I know this is difficult for you,’ Geraldine said, ‘but I need to ask you a few questions about Stephanie. We can do this now, or I can come and see you tomorrow.’
Mr Crawford put his arm around his wife. ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t talk right now. Please…’ his voice b
roke.
Turning away, he buried his face in his wife’s shoulder. After glancing helplessly at April, Geraldine withdrew.
The following morning, Eileen held a brief meeting to review the investigation so far. The main topic of discussion was the DNA that had been discovered on the body. Even without a positive identification, the sample of skin could reveal a lot about Stephanie’s attacker. Establishing the gender and ethnicity of the killer could help to eliminate suspects, when they had any, and with luck they would be able to positively identify her attacker.
After the meeting, Geraldine drove out to see Stephanie’s parents in their home. The area of Saddleworth in the West Riding of Yorkshire was over an hour’s drive from York through rugged countryside. It was an invigorating journey, all the more enjoyable because she was pleased to leave the confines of the police station in Fulford Road. It was early days, but so far working as a sergeant in York felt very different to being an inspector in London. She wasn’t sure that anyone but Ian and Eileen knew that she had been demoted. No one appeared curious about her move out of London, but she felt compelled to stay on her guard at work. Probably no one would care, or even notice, if she addressed a fellow sergeant as though she was their superior officer, but it would be all too easy for her to gain a reputation for being haughty, if she wasn’t careful. She had to keep reminding herself that she was no longer an inspector.
Uppermill was an attractive village of soft yellowish York stone nestling in a valley, the houses and shops dominated by a tall church steeple. A canal ran parallel to the main thoroughfare, set back from it. Passing a pub, Geraldine left the High Street and drove up a narrow road with cars parked on both sides. Reaching a Victorian civic hall, she turned right and stopped outside a row of terraced houses where the dead girl’s parents lived.
Mrs Crawford answered the door looking drawn, and so pale that the resemblance to her dead daughter was uncanny.
‘The paper reported she was stabbed several times,’ Mrs Crawford said dully as soon as Geraldine sat down in the front room.
‘She would have been killed by the first blow.’ Geraldine feigned a confidence she didn’t feel. It could have been true. ‘She wouldn’t have suffered.’
Mr Crawford entered in time to hear Geraldine’s comment. ‘I thought it took four minutes for a person to die,’ he said, his face twisted in a sour expression.
‘But she would have lost consciousness straight away,’ Geraldine countered, as firmly as she could.
Desperately sorry for them both, she had no wish to be insensitive. Nevertheless, she had travelled a long way to speak to them and didn’t want to leave there without answers to her questions. Instead of sitting down, Mrs Crawford went off to the kitchen to make tea. Geraldine suspected she wanted to avoid having to talk about what had happened.
‘It’s hit her very hard,’ Mr Crawford muttered when his wife was out of the room.
It was hardly surprising.
Geraldine reiterated her condolences. ‘I can’t express my sympathy strongly enough, but at the same time we do need to find out who did this,’ she said gently. ‘We all want to see justice done for the sake of your daughter’s memory. And until we have her killer behind bars, there’s a chance he might attack another young woman. So we need to find him urgently.’
‘You said he?’
‘We don’t know who did this. But we intend to find out.’
Mrs Crawford returned. She sat down, and began weeping silently. Mr Crawford was better able to control his emotions, although Geraldine could tell he had been crying earlier.
‘We’ll do anything we can do to help you find out who did this, won’t we, Wendy?’
Unable to speak, his wife nodded her head.
‘I understand you have a son?’ Geraldine asked.
‘Yes. But he’s not in,’ Mr Crawford replied. ‘He’s not often here.’
‘He spends a lot of time rehearsing,’ his wife explained, stifling her sobs and smiling faintly. ‘He’s in a band with some of his friends from school. A rock band.’
‘I might have to come back and speak to him.’ Seeing Mr and Mrs Crawford exchange a worried glance, Geraldine continued, ‘Is that a problem?’
Mr Crawford shook his head. ‘Not at all.’
‘It’s just that he’s – he’s difficult,’ his wife said. ‘He’s twenty,’ she added as though that were sufficient explanation of her son’s conduct.
‘Did he and Stephanie get on well?’ Geraldine asked.
There was an awkward pause, before Mr Crawford assured her his children had got on ‘well enough’.
Despite their assurances that they wanted to help, the Crawfords had little to add to what Geraldine already knew about their daughter. She moved on to the subject of Stephanie’s ex-boyfriends.
‘Her flatmate, Ashley, mentioned that she had a boyfriend who was violent?’
The couple exchanged a worried glance. Mrs Crawford shook her head at her husband who looked at Geraldine helplessly.
‘Not that we know of,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know that he was ever violent.’
‘If he was, she never said anything to us,’ his wife concurred.
Geraldine asked them for a list of all their daughter’s ex-boyfriends. According to her parents, Stephanie had been in a relationship with a man called Tony Palmer for three years. They had only recently split up, and shortly after that she had moved to York. She had been in two other brief relationships before meeting Tony, neither of which had been serious, according to her mother.
‘They were still at school,’ Mrs Crawford explained. ‘They were just children. It was different with Tony. We could all see it was serious. When she went to live with him, we thought she was going to marry him.’
‘She ought to have got that ring on her finger before she ever moved into his house,’ her husband added bitterly.
‘After they split up, she went off to York in a fit of pique,’ Mrs Crawford said.
‘She was hoping he’d run after her,’ Mr Crawford added. ‘If she hadn’t gone off like that, this would never have happened.’
‘We begged her to stay here, with us. She didn’t have to go off to the city like that. She would have been safe here…’ Mrs Crawford said. Her voice broke.
‘What’s Tony like?’ Geraldine asked gently. ‘I’m sorry to press you but we need to follow up any possible suspects. Do you think Tony could have been angry with her for going off like that?’
‘Angry enough to kill her?’ Mr Crawford shrugged. ‘Tony seems like a cold fish, but I don’t think he’d have hurt her.’
‘I never liked him,’ his wife added.
‘You say that now, but you never had a bad word to say about him when they were together.’
‘I thought he was going to look after her.’
‘Do you know why they split up?’ Geraldine asked.
‘He dumped her for someone else,’ Mrs Crawford answered sharply.
‘You don’t know that,’ her husband said. ‘No one saw them together until after Stephanie left Uppermill.’
‘It was pretty soon after she went,’ his wife snapped. ‘It stands to reason he was seeing that cow before he and Stephanie broke up.’
Geraldine made a note of Tony Palmer’s address, and left soon after that. Having reported the names of the other two men so they could be traced, she went to see Tony Palmer, wondering if he could be the violent ex-boyfriend Stephanie’s flatmate had talked about. The dead girl’s medical records had shown no injuries reported since she had broken her leg as a child, a history borne out by the detailed notes from the post mortem. If Tony had been violent towards her, he had been very careful to leave no trace of physical abuse. And if the Crawfords’ account was accurate, it sounded as though Stephanie was the one who had reason to be angry with Tony, rather than the other way around. All the same, Gera
ldine was keen to talk to him.
7
The woman who came to the door was too young to be Tony Palmer’s mother, but she looked too old to be his girlfriend. Her square shoulders were oddly out of proportion with her thin arms, giving her the appearance of a badly formed doll.
‘A detective sergeant?’ she repeated when Geraldine introduced herself. A wary expression flitted across her face. ‘Is there some sort of problem?’
Geraldine explained that she wanted to speak to Tony Palmer. ‘He does live here, doesn’t he?’
‘Well, yes,’ the woman hesitated.
‘Is he here now?’
‘What’s this about?’
Geraldine answered the question with another. ‘Are you related to him?’
‘I’m his girlfriend. We’re not married, if that’s any business of yours,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s not a crime to live with someone. So what do you want with him?’
‘I’d like to speak with him,’ Geraldine repeated patiently. ‘Is he here?’
When the woman hesitated, Geraldine took a step forward.
‘Look, you can’t come barging into my house like this without any warning…’
‘Very well. In that case please tell Tony a patrol car will be outside your house in five minutes to pick him up and drive him over to the police station in York.’
She turned away and took out her phone.
‘No, wait!’ the woman called out. ‘Wait right here! I’ll tell him you’re here.’
The front door closed. A few moments later it opened again to reveal a man in his early thirties. He had a delicate face with high cheekbones, and a pointed chin. Above his dark eyes, very thin eyebrows rose in surprise. Tall and slender, he moved with a grace that made him look effeminate. He turned to the blond woman at his side with a baffled expression. She shrugged and suggested that Geraldine must be mistaken.
‘Are you sure it’s me you want? I haven’t broken the law,’ he stammered.
Class Murder Page 4